


Marked

by Twisted_Mind



Series: 12 Days of Christmas [9]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Consent Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It, M/M, Male Slash, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 10:37:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1645598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the 9th day of Christmas I give you . . . Charlie's healing touch</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GhostxWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostxWriter/gifts).



> Originally posted Dec 22nd 2012 at HP Fandom as a gift. Edited upon re-posting here. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. I wouldn't'a fuckin' killed everyone if they belonged to me.

  
 The war had left its marks on everyone—and it didn’t only leave them on people’s forearms. Still, to anyone looking at Draco Malfoy, they would most likely roll their eyes and scathingly retort that _that_ putrescent wanker was too self-absorbed to be affected by anything.   
  
Oh, how wrong they were.   
  
Draco had very much been affected by the war—but only those close to him were likely to notice. Fortunately for him, there were remarkably few people that he was close to. Even still, Draco was grateful that his position as Potions Master on retainer for magical creature reserves left him mostly alone. Or did, anyway, until he’d been transferred.   
  
One might reasonably conclude that living in the Romanian wilderness with a horde of dragons and their handlers would lend a certain amount of solitude to life. Sadly, such was not the case. In point of fact, Draco had never been so plagued by persistent pests in all his life—and considering the fact that he’d been to school with _Potter_ that was saying something.   
  
All those on the dragon reserve seemed intent on becoming best friends and lovers with everyone else on the reserve. Draco could hardly fathom why. Quite frankly, he didn’t care; what he _did_ care about was that they stop trying to include him in such antics. Sadly, that didn’t appear likely.   
  
Draco was currently hiding out in his lab, hoping against hope (and experience) that he wouldn’t be dragged out in yet another rubbish attempt at bonding. Despite all the attempts to the contrary, Draco remained aloof from others on the reserve. Besides that, he had a batch of burn salve that he was trying to finish—and one would think _that_ , at least, was something these perpetually-singed nutters could appreciate.   
  
But no.   
  
Draco’s hope for a quiet evening with his cauldrons was blasted to bits when a large hand clapped him on the shoulder from behind. Immediately tensing and pulling away—it was _not_ a flinch, damnit!—Draco quickly snapped at the intruder, “Merlin’s hairy _balls_! How many times do I have to tell you louts not to interrupt me when I’m in here?” he snarled, trying to force his heart to stop pounding and wishing all the while that he was allowed to cast Imperturbable Charms over every inch of his lab.  
  
Spinning to glare at the latest in a line of obviously-dim-witted dragon handlers, Draco found himself face-to-face with Charlie Weasley. Draco rubbed at his eyes, wondering if all gingers inherited obstinacy as a character trait, or if it was just particular to the Weasley brand of gingers. When the Weasley in question reached out again, Draco took an involuntary step back. “What do you want, Weasley? I’m busy,” he asked, his voice terse and his body tense.   
  
“I _was_ going to invite you to dinner, seeing as you were brewing all through lunch. That’s one way to keep your figure I suppose, but we’d all rather you not wasted away to nothing. ‘Course, the others were willing to come in here and just drag you out, but I’ve always had the best luck with the really persnickety dragons.” A crooked grin spread across his freckled face. “So, you gonna come out?”  
  
“I’m busy,” Draco ground out from between clenched teeth. He deliberately turned his back on Charlie, resuming his stirring of the nearly-finished burn salve. He fully expected the man to leave him in peace—it wasn’t, after all, a great thing to ask.   
  
“Skittishness isn’t something to be ashamed of, you know,” Charlie said easily. Draco hummed dismissively. “The important bit, though, is to push past it.” Charlie paused, waiting for some kind of response; when clear that none was forthcoming, he forged ahead. “I don’t think you avoid the rest of us because you truly dislike us; I think you steer clear because you’re afraid of being touched.”   
  
At that, he got a response out of Draco. “That’s utterly absurd,” the Potions Master scoffed.   
  
“I don’t think it is. You hide in here most of the time, keep your distance from the rest of us, and flinch when we touch you,” Charlie countered, stepping closer to the blond.   
  
“Have you ever thought that perhaps I simply wish to avoid a pack of dragon handlers with no regard for personal space?” he sneered, fighting the urge to take a step back and maintain the distance between them.   
  
“Maybe—but then, maybe we’re just the thing you need,” Charlie countered, taking another step. The urge to reclaim that tiny amount of space was intense.   
  
“You are hopelessly dim if you think that you could provide something I need,” Draco barked out, skirting the cauldron to put it between him and the red-haired man.   
  
“Except that it's a proven fact human beings need social touch—something that you seem to go out of your way to avoid.” Charlie—damn him—wasn’t the slightest bit put off by Draco’s hissing and snarling, and continued to move toward the blond man.   
  
Noting the growing look of panic in those expressive grey eyes, Charlie continued to advance slowly, talking softly all the while. “That’s why we’re all so close up here on the reserve, you know. If we all tried to keep a professional distance from one another while stuck hip-deep in the middle of half-ass to nowhere for months on end, we’d all go mental. We need that social contact, all of us.”   
  
And then, suddenly, Charlie was just inches away, and Draco couldn’t stand it. He tried to run, but large hands gripped him round the waist and slammed him into the wall, before a large body covered his own.   
  
Draco squirmed and tried to lash out with feet and fists and knees, but the man pinning him down was strong; Charlie with his big hands and broad shoulders and barrel chest wasn’t going to budge. As Draco kept fighting to break away, he realized that it wasn’t possible—Charlie was broader and stronger by too much for Draco to get free unless his captor allowed it. What was worse, Draco found that there was something about Charlie, something about knowing he could fight all he wanted—and _lose_ —that was . . .  
  
But then those large, impossibly hot hands were unfastening his robes, and sliding under his blue Oxford shirt, and Charlie’s mouth was on that spot behind Draco’s ear. Draco’s hands stopped flailing, and instead gripped the redhead’s shoulders for support as he melted under the dragon handler’s determined assault. It was impossible to keep fighting when rough, callused thumbs were brushing over his nipples and Charlie’s stubble was scraping against his neck and face in the way that Draco had quietly yearned for and needed for the last . . . he didn’t even remember how long.   
  
He simply let himself fall limp and pliant under Charlie, submitting to the petting, stroking and kisses with tiny, near-silent whimpers. When Draco suddenly felt the searing heat of one of those callused hands run down the back of his thigh, he wondered hazily what had happened to his trousers. And his pants, for that matter. But then Charlie’s tongue was in his mouth, moving over his teeth, and he was so distracted by that and the hand that slid down to cup his erection that he hardly registered the tingle of preparation charms washing through him.   
  
It would have been hard not to notice, however, when Charlie guided Draco’s long legs around his own lean hips, sliding his big hands under Draco’s arse to lift him up. Bracing his back against the wall, the blond’s grip on Charlie grew tight, his limbs locking around the only thing holding him up. But then Charlie was lifting him up even higher, and sliding into his arse, letting gravity and need push Draco down until he was fully sheathed inside the lithe body.   
  
Draco clawed at Charlie not out of anger, but in an attempt to steady himself and adjust to the unaccustomed feeling of fullness. Before he could catch his breath, Charlie’s hands shifted to his hips, and—freckled hands digging into pale flesh—began to thrust. Everywhere they touched, Charlie’s skin felt hot, and it wasn’t until then that Draco realized he’d been cold.   
  
Draco’s hands fisted in that blasted ginger hair as Charlie fastened his teeth over a nipple, his pounding rhythm unfaltering. When he tugged at the pebbled flesh, Draco felt his cock twitch violently, and arched. The movement caused Charlie to bang forcefully into his prostate, and Draco let out a small cry. Charlie’s resulting chuckle scraped over Draco’s nerves, and he turned his attentions to the other nipple, letting his stubble drag across Draco’s meticulously hairless chest.   
  
It wasn’t long before Draco was teetering on the edge of pleasant oblivion, his need to come obvious in the high-pitched wheezing he made with every breath. Charlie’s grasp on Draco’s hip grew impossibly tighter as he latched his teeth on the pale throat, and reached one hand to roughly fist Draco’s somewhat neglected cock. Between Charlie’s teeth and fist, Draco leaned and fell headfirst into orgasm, his body tightening and spasming around Charlie.   
  
Just as Draco was coming down from his sex-induced high, he noticed that Charlie’s previously-constant rhythm was lost as the redhead frantically humped his way to pleasure. Draco’s body twitched and groaned in silent protest; the stimulation to his prostate now was very nearly painful after such a powerful release. But then Charlie was sighing into his neck as his hips stuttered and stilled. Draco felt the hot gush filling him with a perverse and inexplicable sense of satisfaction.   
  
One of Charlie’s arms wrapped around Draco’s waist while the other slowly lowered first one, then the other pale leg to the floor. Draco stood a little unsteadily as the dragon handler cast Cleaning Charms over both of them, vanishing the sticky mess. He tried to shake the haze from his mind when the other man handed him the rest of his clothes, and tried to set himself to rights.   
  
As Draco was sliding his legs into his trousers, Charlie broke the not-wholly-uncomfortable silence. “So . . . you’re going to come along to dinner now.” Draco looked up sharply at that—the other man’s words were a question, but his tone indicated an order. Almost like Draco _belonged_ to him, somehow.   
  
As the Potions Master looked down to fasten his trousers, he caught sight of the edge of the purpling marks Charlie’s hands had left on his hips. He thought that, maybe, just maybe, that might be true. And yet, Draco found that he didn’t really mind as much as he thought he should.   
  
  
  
  



End file.
